Date: Fri, 14 Jan 2011 15:46:09 +0000
From: Michael Gouda
Subject: Snapshots of War (Part 1)
*Snapshots of War*
*Michael Gouda*
*Part 1*
*Thursday 30th May 1940*
Private Bert Salter, stinking to high heaven - though not as yet up there,
who hadn't taken off his boots for three days or his uniform for a week,
tramped down the gully to the sea. "Smell the ozone," his mother used to
say. He'd been smelling it for some time now - it reminded him of the
seaside at home.
Everything else was foreign, the long straight roads bordered by their lines
of tall poplar trees - you never saw anything like that back in England -
nor the houses with their shutters on the outside of the windows. Behind him
the sound of gunfire - German gunfire of course though he - in the three
weeks he had been in France - hadn't even fired a shot. The Maginot Line
would hold them back, they had been told. The French had every confidence in
that string of antiquated defences and then the tanks of Hitler's Panzer
divisions had swept through and round them as if they had been made from
cardboard. The Maginot Line had crumbled, the French army had crumbled and
now here the British Expeditionary Force was running away - an organised
withdrawal, they called it but to Bert it was fucking running away.
"And what happens when we get to the sea?" he asked the soldier who walked
alongside him. Not from his unit, not anyone he knew - but then they were
all mixed up - a complete fucking cock-up. Even the officers who had given
the orders to retreat were strangers.
"Do we fucking have to swim home?"
The other man didn't answer. A younger man - perhaps in his twenties but
looking as exhausted as Bert felt, his eyes red-rimmed under thick
carrot-coloured eyebrows, red hair curling from under a forage cap, his feet
stumbling, rifle trailing in the dirt, uniform stained and crumpled.
"Any idea where we are, mate?" asked Bert.
"Town called Dunkirk, I heard." His voice had a strange accent, one Bert
couldn't quite place, the words enunciated carefully, almost pedantically.
The gully opened out into a broad expanse of sand and there ahead of them
was the sea, picture-postcard blue with silver flecks in the perfect late
Spring weather. Bert remembered similar views at the seaside from his youth.
Days out at Brighton though it was pebbles there and of course a pier
instead of the mole. He looked around. Here there were just a few houses off
the shoreline, and the long grey stone wall built well out into the sea to
protect a harbour basin, then nearer the dunes with their tall spiked
grasses and finally the sand. There didn't seem to be anywhere to go so he
sat down amidst the tussocks of marram grass. The other soldier sat next to
him and fished out a packet of five Woodbines from his blouse pocket. He
offered them.
"Gotta light?" he asked.
"Better than them fucking French Gauloises fags," Bert said puffing
contentedly after an initial cough as the raw smoke sandpapered his throat.
More and more soldiers arrived down the gully. Some were wounded. One had a
bandage round his eyes and was being led by a friend. Some wore their
waterproof capes, one a greatcoat, another seemed to have lost his tunic and
was just wearing a vest, sweat-stained under the armpits. They formed a
ragged if companionable group, sitting there in the sand dunes, tin hats
off, faces upturned to the warm sunshine, fags offered and received, all
contentedly smoking.
"You men!" A curt voice suddenly reminded them where and what they were. A
Captain appeared. Bert had never seen him before. "Put your helmets on and
start digging," he ordered. "You're all exposed here and we may have to
spend some time before we get off." He marched on, erect, soldierly, sure
that his orders would be carried out - though there was a dark dirt patch in
the centre of his tunic and a tear in his trousers just below the right
knee.
"Now we're building fucking sand castles," said Bert, as soon as the officer
was out of earshot.
His friend smiled, the skin around his light brown eyes, wrinkling. It made
him look oddly young and attractive.
A couple of the other men started a desultory excavation but the sand was
dry and fine and fell back into the hole almost as soon as it was dug. They
soon gave up and squatted down again. Digging seemed a pointless occupation.
"How far is it?" asked Bert. He didn't say to where but hardly needed to.
"About fifty miles," said his friend nodding out to sea.
"Christ I can't swim that far."
There was a sudden roar in the air above them, a demented howl as a
Messerschmitt appeared from over the hillocks behind and banked sharply left
to fly along the beach. They watched as if it was a bit of entertainment.
Then Punch and Judy changed to the chatter of machine guns and spurts of
sand flew up in two parallel paths. A man further down the beach, seeing the
tracks making for him, tried to get out of the way, his face turned upwards,
but was overtaken and fell, twitching.
The plane disappeared up the beach, guns still firing. The officer, a
Captain in the Royal Artillery, returned. "Haven't you dug yourselves in
yet?" he asked. "Get that man." He pointed to the body lying face down. arms
stretched out as if sun-bathing with all his clothes on.
Bert and his new-found friend went over to look. "Is he badly hurt?" called
the officer.
"He's dead, sir," said Bert.
"Are you sure?"
"He's got no head, sir."
The officer joined them and looked down. "Pull him out of sight behind one
of the dunes," he said, "and then dig yourselves a trench. That bastard will
be back."
Shocked by the suddenness of the incident, they managed to dig a sort of
shallow ditch using their hands and their rifle butts, shoring up the sides
with some bits of wood flotsam they found along the high water mark. They
huddled into it as the sun sank away to their left. The officer had not
reappeared again nor had the plane though the gunfire from inland sounded
nearer, flashes lighting the sky that the sun had left. Someone lit a fire
and started a brew, taking water from a small stream that dribbled its way
towards the sea. There was no milk but they had some sugar to sweeten the
drink.
"Christ, I'm hungry," complained Bert. "Me fucking stomach thinks me
throat's cut."
His friend looked round then surreptitiously fished around in his breast
pocket. "Chocolate," he whispered, "Red Cross parcel. I've saved it for
emergencies. I would say this is one of those." He split the bar carefully
into two and handed Bert half.
Bert broke off the tiny squares, one by one. The sweetness melted over his
tongue. He savoured the taste, trying to make it last as long as he could.
They sat side by side while the dusk turned to night and the stars came out.
There was no moon and the only other lights were the red embers of their
cigarettes. The guns ceased.
"You married?" asked the soldier.
"You bet," said Bert. "Two kids as well, girl and a boy."
The other sighed. "You'll be seeing them soon."
Bert was about to ask after the other's family when the man suddenly
stirred. "I'm going for a swim," he said. He stood and started to take off
his uniform, the blancoed belt and webbing, tunic, slipping the braces down,
undoing his boots, pulling off his socks. Bert could just about make out the
movements through the darkness. His own body felt sticky and unpleasant and
the thought of the cool sea was irresistible.
Together, wearing just the baggy Army-issue underpants, and carrying the
rest of their clothes and their rifles, they went down the water-furrowed
sand avoiding groups of men identifiable by their own cigarettes to where
the wavelets broke on the shore. Something out there, whether fish or the
sea itself, threw up small patches of phosphorescence, silvery-green in the
darkness. Bert paused at the brink, his toes in the water, then stripped off
his pants so that, naked except for his identity tags - red to be buried
with him, green to be sent home - he waded in. Beside him he could see the
white shape of his friend and they started to race each other, the water
slowing them down, building up resistance against their legs. Deeper so that
the waves surged against their groins, the cold making them gasp. Bert flung
himself down and felt the water close over his head.
He emerged panting, breathless, laughing. He could see no one and then a
shape broke the surface near to him, clutched at his waist, pulling him
down. They were like kids, wrestling, trying to duck each other. Their
bodies brushed together and Bert could feel the other's warmth. Arms and
legs wrapped round him and he squirmed, trying to escape but enjoying the
contact and when the other broke away, he launched his own offensive.
Suddenly they realised they were not alone. Others had followed, tempted by
the sea and like a school of white porpoises, bodies leapt and cavorted,
splashed and shouted. For a while Bert and his friend played until, suddenly
feeling cold, Bert shouted. "I'm fucking frozen. Let's get out."
No towel of course and it was difficult to find their piles of clothing. For
a moment Bert wondered what would happen if their clothes had been removed
and, if, when dawn came, they would all be discovered, naked on the shore.
But they found them - or found some certainly, brushed off the wetness from
their bodies with their hands and put the clothes on, shivering.
The ditch they had dug, they could not locate so found a deserted patch
amongst the tufts of marram grass above the high-water mark. and lay down.
Bert felt clean for the first time for some weeks though he knew the salt
would feel sticky when it eventually dried. He shivered.
His new friend moved closer and put his arms round him. For a moment Bert
tensed but then relaxed, welcoming the warmth of the body wrapped around
him. It was ages since he'd last felt the heat of a human body beside him, a
breath against his neck, arms holding him. He was almost tempted to turn so
that they could be face to face but he realised that in that case his
erection would be obvious to the other so he lay as he was.
*Friday 31st May 1940*
When Bert woke up in dawn light he was alone - or rather of course not alone
for the beach was full of soldiers, some still sprawling in exhausted sleep,
some perhaps just arrived and squatting down amongst the dunes, some
standing perhaps fearful that if they allowed their weary bodies to lie
down, they would never be able to get up again. The guns started. The dull
crump crump of the heavy howitzers contrasted with the sharp snap of rifles
and an occasional stuttering rhythm of a machine gun.
But his friend of yesterday was nowhere to be seen and Bert felt strangely
deserted. What was worse perhaps was that he had not even learned his name.
Now perhaps he never would. He tried to straighten his uniform but it felt
odd, too tight under the armpits, and his trousers were too short though of
course the puttees would hide this. For a moment he couldn't understand what
had happened but then realised that the clothes he - and his friend - had
picked up after bathing last night - must have belonged to someone else. Not
that it mattered really. The ones Bert now wore - though slightly too small
- smelled marginally fresher than his own and he rather pitied the soldier
who had been left his...
Over the brow of the hillock came the Captain, the same one as had been busy
with them last night. Now he was accompanied by an R.A.S.C. Sergeant.
"Have you got your men together, Corporal?" he asked as he came past Bert.
Bert looked round to see whom he was talking to, but there was no one near.
"What's your name?" The Captain was obviously talking to him.
"Salter, sir."
"Well, Corporal Salter, get some groups of men together. March 'em down to
the sea."
"To the sea, sir?" said Bert. Could it be that they were actually going to
have to swim?
"Look out there, Corporal," said the Sergeant, beer-belly, deep-voiced. He
pointed down the beach and Bert saw, across the sea, well over the horizon,
coming in, a flotilla of boats but not the sort you'd expect in time of war,
transports of every description. He could make out a large merchant ship,
its funnel belching dirty black smoke, a channel ferry, deck high out of the
water and painted white so that it gleamed in the sunshine. Around them
bobbed the fresh clean sails of what looked like private yachts and the
dirty grey of fishing smacks. Low down in the water was the long flat shape
of a coal barge, pulled by a tug, bows cutting through the waves.
"Fucking 'ell !" said Bert, forgetting where he was.
"Watch your language, Corporal," said the officer. Bert couldn't understand
why he was calling him Corporal until suddenly he caught sight of the double
chevrons on his arm. So he had swapped clothes with an NCO. Probably a
chargeable offence but it couldn't be helped. He pulled himself together and
tried to act like a Corporal.
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It was just the sight of all them boats."
"Ships, Corporal - but yes it's a brave sight. Now help the Sergeant
organise the men into groups of twenty or so. March them down to the
shoreline and get them ready to embark. Those ships won't want to hang about
once they get here."
He walked off and the Sergeant remained behind to say, "Just get the groups
down to the shore and ready to board."
"Got any food, Sarge?"
"Not till you get back to Blighty." He strode off.
"Thought the RASC were supposed to provide provisions," Bert muttered. For a
moment he considered stripping off the tunic with its incriminating stripes
but then decided it might be to his advantage to keep his promotion - at
least for the present. He walked over to a group of soldiers lounging in the
sand.
"OK, you lot. You're first for the boats. Get down to the shoreline. Quick
as you like." To his surprise they obeyed though it might have been the
prospect of rescue that inspired them rather than his order.
All down the beach he could see the rabble of despondent soldiery being
organised into small groups, being marched down to the sea where the small
boats got gradually closer. They seemed agonisingly slow whereas the gunfire
from inland grew steadily louder and closer.
A small motor cruiser, used more probably to the Norfolk Broads rather than
the North Sea, roared into hailing distance and cut its engine. A man in the
cockpit, bald-headed and bearded, dressed incongruously in naval uniform
shouted, "You'll have to wade out. I can't get any closer without grounding.
I can take fifteen men, twenty at a pinch."
Bert waved. "Into the water," he said. "Quick as you can."
A young soldier looking about sixteen years old hardly older than his own
son, William, stared at him with scared eyes. "I can't swim, Corp," he said.
"You don't have to. It probably isn't that deep." All the same he grabbed
the boy by the arm and strode with him into the sea. It was flat calm and
the sand sloped gradually so that they were some way out before the water
was even up to their waists. Twenty yards further out the launch bobbed in
the swell with the man - must have been well over sixty, thought Bert -
beckoned encouragingly.
At that moment, as if they knew that their hemmed-in prisoners were
escaping, two Heinkel 88s swept through the sky with screams of outraged
protest. The calm sea and the bright sunshine made the ships and the men in
the water and along the shoreline perfect targets for their bombs and
machine gun fire.
The ground under their feet gave way and Bert and the boy were suddenly
plunged into deep water. The boy started struggling, arms wildly flailing
and Bert himself knew a moment of panic as his sodden clothes pulled him
down and the youth's violence restricted his swimming. His head bobbed to
the surface and he shouted to him to stay quiet or he'd drown them both.
Just ahead the boat's side was almost in reach. The planes roared overhead
and the boy quietened. The man in the sailor's uniform held out a pole of
some sort to them.
"Grab hold," said Bert before his mouth was filled with salt water. The boy
though seemed not to hear. He was heavy in Bert's arms and his face was down
in the water. In his back were two dark ragged holes and the water around
pulsed red.
"Oh Christ," said Bert and let him go. The body wallowed once or twice
before disappearing sluggishly below the waves.
Now the other men had caught up and were pulling at the sides of the boat,
trying to haul themselves out. "Take it easy, lads," said the man. "You'll
have her over. One at a time."
One soldier clambered aboard and helped the old man to get the others in,
Bert pushing from underneath. They filled the cabin, sat on the gunwales all
around, legs hanging over the side. The boat rode low in the water.
"Are you going back for some more, Corporal?" asked the man.
Fuck that for a game of soldiers, thought Bert and hoisted himself over the
side. He thought for a moment that the man looked disapproving but he said
nothing, turned back to the controls and started the engine. More German
planes flew over as they wove their way through the boats and the plumes of
spray of bombs exploding all around them, heading toward England.
A fishing boat alongside them received a direct hit, scattering wreckage and
bodies but the evacuation continued and would do for the next two days and
nights under a persistent and deadly bombardment until eventually a sea fog
rolled in and provided a sort of protection.
But Bert Salter arrived in Britain safely.
*Wednesday 24th July 1940*
The countries had gone down like ninepins to the bowling ball of German
aggression - Poland, Denmark, Norway, Holland, Belgium, France - and there
were those citizens of these invaded countries who wanted to escape.
Consequently for a while there was a continuing if at times intermittent
influx of boats of all sorts across the Channel bearing refugees. Some
didn't make it - or at least were only washed up as bodies - others arrived
to be greeted by the Local Defence Volunteers - soon to be called the Home
Guard - and taken to the Police Station for interrogation - after all you
couldn't be too careful.
On the 19th June a rowing boat pushed its bow into the soft sands at the
base of the white cliffs of Dover and a young man dressed in blue
fisherman's gear got out - somewhat unsteadily - he claimed he hadn't eaten
for three days, and was promptly arrested by 78 year old General Sir Francis
Horrocks who was in charge of the LDV platoon in the area.
Piet Kees was escorted to the Police station and there seen by Inspector
Harold Burns.
Inspector Burns took down the young man's details. His nationality was
Dutch, city of origin, Amsterdam, but he had been studying at the Sorbonne
in Paris at the time of the German occupation. For some weeks after, he had
kept a low profile, avoiding as far as possible, any contact with Germans.
He feared that if he registered with the authorities he would be shipped
back to Holland which would have made his escape even more difficult.
Eventually with the help of a French Maquis group, he decided to try to make
the hazardous journey from Paris to the coast and then to cross the Channel.
His arrival was reported to the appropriate authorities and eventually a
file with his details arrived on the desk of a junior MI5 officer,
Headquarters in Wormwood Scrubs. 'Check family name with Amsterdam contact',
he scrawled in one margin and further down the page, 'Check French Maquis,
code name 'Roland' re: escape from Paris'.
Five weeks to the day after he had landed, Piet Kees was ushered into the
small, windowless room. He had been in custody the whole time. His eyes took
in the scene. A desk with a lamp on it, two straight-back wooden chairs, one
behind the desk, the other in front. Nothing on the cream-painted walls. A
man sat in the chair behind the desk. He had a crown on his epaulettes which
meant he was a Major, thought Piet.
The man, blond hair. slicked down either side of a straight parting,
gesticulated with his hand to the other chair. Piet sat. He longed for a
cigarette, hadn't had one for more than a week.
"My name is George Carlisle," said the Major then added, "Major George
Carlisle. Of course 'Major' isn't part of my name. It is a title,
specifically my Army rank." He had an educated Oxbridge accent and a
pleasant, if rather horse-shaped face. He looked at Piet for a while and
then opened a buff coloured folder in front of him. looking at the papers
inside carefully, as if for the first time. Surely he must know what was in
them, thought Piet.
"You are Piet Kees," said the Major. "26 years old. Dutch. Born in
Amsterdam."
Piet wasn't sure whether he was making statements or asking questions but he
nodded anyway.
"What is your date of birth?"
"23rd October 1913," said Piet.
"Only child?"
"Yes, sir. My father was killed during the first War. I do not even remember
seeing him. My mother never married again."
"Tell me about your education."
Piet told his story, growing up in Amsterdam between the wars, his school
days then how his mother had scrimped and saved from her job as
schoolteacher to send him to University at Leiden and then afterwards to the
Sorbonne in Paris.
"You were there in Paris when the Germans occupied France?"
"I have told this already," said Piet.
"How did you get to know the French Maquis, Roland?"
"I met him soon after I arrived in Paris in 1939. We became friends, drank
together in the bars, discussed politics. He hated the Germans. We were very
close."
The Major looked at him thoughtfully. "You know he has been captured by the
Nazis. Probably been tortured and executed."
Piet was quiet. "I did not know."
"Your mother is not at her address in Amsterdam. Roland cannot corroborate
your story. There is no proof to your tale. We think you could be a spy. We
think you have been sent over here by the Abwehr in Paris."
"No, it is not true."
"Do you know the punishment for spies in time of war in England?"
Piet felt the blood drain from his face.
"We hang them," said the Major calmly.
There was a silence.
"How did you lose your front tooth?"
Piet was for a moment confused. He had not expected that question. "Er... I
lost it in a fight, sir."
"Tell me about it."
"It was just a student disagreement. Too much to drink. We fell out over
something. I can't even remember what."
"So you didn't register with the German Occupation in Paris."
"No. I felt that if I did, my chances of escaping to England would be very
slim."
The Major took out a piece of paper from the folder. "Why did you not tell
us that you were arrested in Paris on the 25th May and taken to the Abwehr
counter-espionage Headquarters in the Rue Véronique where you were kept
there for four days?"
Piet's consternation was obvious in his face.
Major Carlisle smiled but it was hardly a friendly one.
End of Part 1